


Sunflowers & Dandelions

by Sunie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 21:22:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6824830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunie/pseuds/Sunie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angels, Sam thinks, are a bit like bees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunflowers & Dandelions

i.  
dandelions

Angels, Sam thinks, are a bit like bees. He thinks he understands, now, why Castiel had been so fixated with them all those years ago.

Or maybe it’s not angels themselves that resemble bees, but the image of them which Sam always preferred to imagine.

A younger Sam would have, with stars in his eyes, envisioned angels as warriors of god, defending the hive that was the world with mouths made to sing praise to their Lord. A younger Sam would have, with his hands clasped in prayer, envisioned angels as selfless, glorious; radiant and perfect and just.

Since then Sam has met many angels, and he knows now that angels, the real ones, are nothing like bees. He has met angels that would sooner destroy the world than watch over and protect it. He has met angels that use their borrowed lips to spite their Father who made them. He has met angels who are prideful, wrathful, vengeful; petty and greedy and wicked.

But more importantly, he has met angels who were selfish. And Castiel, who is wandering off the path right now to inspect the circle of yellow flowers in the overgrown grass, has been selfish in all the right ways, Sam thinks.

They came here to jog, to maybe get some exercise, but selfishly, Castiel would rather look at weeds than watch Sam tire his mortal body out. Cas has been selfish in other ways, too. Sam remembers when the angel wanted to be Claire’s friend—or, more specifically, when he wanted Claire to be _his_ friend, even when she wanted nothing to do with him. He remembers when the angel dropped the demon tablet and shattered it into pieces all because he couldn’t handle Meg and Dean arguing in front of him. He remembers when Dean tore himself apart because he thought he had let Cas go, when in reality the angel had chosen penance over Dean.

And, of course, Sam remembers much worse than that. He remembers the Leviathans, and Purgatory, and Crowley, and Metatron’s spell. He remembers the cold sting of betrayal, of lies and deceit spilled stumblingly from the angel’s clumsy tongue.

But, Sam thinks, that’s what makes Castiel so human. That he _wants_ things. Not just for Heaven, but for himself, too. And as the angel looks up at him, kneeling in the grass and staining his trenchcoat green, Sam feels his lips pulling up into a smile.

“Come here, Sam,” Castiel says as he tenderly plucks dandelions by their stalks. Sam obeys, stepping over and crouching in front of Cas. “Turn around,” the angel says, and Sam blinks.

“What are you gonna do?” he asks, but does it anyways, giving Castiel his back and settling his big body onto the ground. The angel doesn’t answer, not out loud at least, but Sam can feel his hair being softly tugged. His brows wrinkle together. “Cas, what are you doing?” he asks again, though he knows he probably won’t get an answer.

After several minutes of silence and Sam ripping at grass while he waits, Castiel finally says, “Here.” His cell phone enters the edge of Sam’s vision, and Sam blinks, going to grab it. The screen is on and shows a picture of the back of his head. His hair has been woven into small braids, and among the strands are laced in the golden blooms of dandelions.

Sam feels his cheeks flush red with heat. “Uh…” he turns around and looks at Castiel, brows wound together in mild exasperation as he tries to fight down his involuntary smile. “Cas, you know those are weeds, right?”

Castiel looks at Sam seriously and cants his head to the side. “Weeds aren’t real,” he explains, and sets a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Humans merely assign that arbitrary category to plants that they don’t want growing in a given area. But in reality, all plants are equally precious.”

Sam opens his mouth and closes it. Various sentences, their ends unfinished, sort through his brain, but none of them make it to his tongue.

“I think they suit you, Sam,” the angel says softly, his eyes still holding that intense gaze. “Because you are as precious as dandelions.”

Sam swallows. “Thanks,” he says, his throat dry. And what else could he say to that? For a few moments they sit there silently, blue looking into hazel, before Sam remembers that he has to get home eventually. He gets up, dusting the grass from his jeans, and Castiel follows suite, standing in one fluid motion like a robot animated.

The people in the park stare at him, and he has to resist the overpowering urge to run his hands through his hair and destroy the braids and weed out the dandelions because Castiel is next to him, and Cas, selfishly, would like for Sam to keep the flowers in his hair.

And, selfishly, Sam would not want to upset Castiel. Selfishly, privately, if it makes Castiel happy, Sam would wear dandelions in his hair every day. Selfishly, privately, truthfully, Sam would like more than anything else to be the one to make Castiel smile.

And as Sam glances over at the angel trailing by his side, his angled profile lit at the edges by the morning sun, he thinks he sees the beginnings of a smile tugging at Cas’s lips.

Selfishness, Sam thinks, is a very human quality, and he’ll be keeping that one, thank you very much.

\------

ii.  
allegories

“I understand now,” Castiel declares almost a full thirty seconds into the end credits.

Sam turns his head, brows wound together in a bemused expression. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s an allegory for the life of Jesus Christ,” the angel replies, hands splayed on his knees as he stares intensely at the rolling names. “The lion was Son of God, who sacrificed himself for a sinner like Edmund. And the two women who were the first to witness Jesus’s resurrection were Susan and Lucy.” He turns his head and looks at Sam with big, naïve yet knowing eyes. “I like this movie, Sam.”

Sam opens his mouth, clears his throat. “Yeah,” he says, and for once, the angel’s outlandish religious theories about fiction aren’t completely off, but it’s still ridiculous that it seems to be his only take-away from the film. “Yeah,” he says again, aware that he’s repeating himself now.

Castiel looks over to Dean, who’s splayed all over the couch, head thrown back in slumber with a bottle of beer tucked under his arm. “Dean fell asleep,” he observes aloud.

Sam laughs quietly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind his ear. “Guess it’s just you and me.” He’s aware of how charged that phrase is, and he wonders if the angel will pick up on what he means.

Cas gazes at Sam, eyes wide. He leans forward and his hand hovers over Sam’s. “May I?” he asks, and Sam blinks, nodding. The angel clasps Sam’s hands between his own and leans forward, touching their noses together. Sam feels the heat rush to his face, his heart flailing against the bars of his ribcage. He hopes his palms aren’t sweating all over Cas’s.

“Did you like the movie, Sam?” Castiel asks, and Sam croaks out a _yes_ , though he isn’t sure if it’s the question he’s answering or something else.

As a smile blooms onto the angel’s face and makes Sam’s chest swell, he decides it’s _something else_.

\------

iii.  
molecules

“This is a very strange smelling coffee,” Castiel observes as Sam hands him the mug of hot chocolate.

Sam has to hold back what could be a rather infantilizing smile. “It’s not coffee,” he explains. “It’s hot chocolate.”

The angel’s brows draw together as he scrutinizes the brown liquid pooled inside the cup. “A different type of bean brew, then,” he says.

Sam chuckles awkwardly. “Well, when you say like that, it all sounds pretty gross.” He runs a hand through his hair and leans over the table, watching as the angel brings the mug closer to his lips.

Castiel blows gently, creating and destroying ripples under the whim of his breath. Then he tips the cup just slightly so that some of it pours into his mouth. He swishes it about between his cheeks before swallowing.

Sam waits.

“These are good molecules,” Castiel declares, setting the mug down. “I like these molecules. They’re very sweet.”

Sam smiles. The smile fades, however, when the angel picks the mug back up and chugs the entire drink down in one go.

“I would like more of the hot chocolate, Sam,” Castiel says innocently, and Sam has to huff back his laughter. Foamy brown rims the angel’s upper lip in a bizarre mustache. It’s a good look for him, he decides to himself jokingly, and grabs a napkin as he leans forward to dab it off. Castiel remains completely still, and once it’s all gone, Sam pecks his lips in a quick kiss.

“Okay, but you’re helping this time,” he says, and the angel pouts almost like a child.

\------

iv.  
touches

At first, Sam thought it was the angel being unsure about human customs and boundaries.

Castiel would never take his hand without asking. In public, or even at home while sitting on the couch, he would nudge his fingers against Sam’s and ask gently, “is this okay?” before Sam would say “yes” or answer by taking the angel’s hand in return and holding it tightly.

Kisses were the same way, too, and, in Sam’s opinion, infinitely more awkward. “May I kiss you, Sam?” was the question that would come forth from the angel’s lips, and Sam would duck his head to the side shyly and say, “Yes, Cas, of course.” And Cas’s kisses were always gentle and sweet—nothing like the pizza man, Sam would think to himself sometimes in his most sardonic moods.

Sam realizes now, though, that it’s not that Castiel is unsure. It’s that Castiel is _completely_ sure. Because after Meg, after Ruby, after Lucifer, after all the people that have used his body against his will or maybe by coercing his will, Castiel, Sam thinks, is completely sure of Sam’s boundaries.

The two of them lie on Sam’s bed, illuminated white by the glare from the television. Castiel’s hand slowly creeps across the sheets and touches Sam’s palm. “Is this okay?” he asks, and blinks when Sam turns his whole body over, grasping his hand like a blessing.

Sam leans forward and plants a kiss on the angel’s forehead. “Yes,” he whispers. “And thank you, Cas.”

A timid smile blossoms and lifts up Castiel’s whole face. “You are welcome, Sam,” he replies, and squeezes Sam’s hand between his fingers.

\------

v.  
sunflowers

Sam finds it strange how vast the discrepancy is between angels as described in the Bible and angels as depicted in art. In paintings and sketches, angels are always beautiful. Resembling humans but with wings sprouted from their backs, heads illuminated by circles of shining light as they fly through the skies, wielding harps and singing praises to God.

In the Bible, they sound almost monstrous. Balls of fire and light, thousands of wings and eyes, eternally opening and closing, furling and unfurling. Rotating heads of animal faces, of snarling lions and braying lambs. So terrifying are they that their first words to every human that sees them is _do not be afraid_.

When Sam look at Castiel, he wonders which of them he is. Castiel, Sam knows, is light. He is not this awkward hunched body wrapped in a trenchcoat but a wavelength, a burst of photons, a wash of golden white. And though Sam has never seen Cas’s wings, not even in shadow, he knows that he has them, and that they are grand and large and glorious.

So it is like this that, in the middle of a game of chess, Sam blurts, “What do you look like?”

Castiel lifts his eyes from the board, tilting his head. “What do you mean?” he asks, thumbing one of his fallen white pawns as he speaks. “You can see me right now, can’t you?”

“That’s… I mean, that’s… that’s not really _you_ , right? It’s just Jimmy. I mean you. The real you,” Sam says, cursing himself for his stumbling speech and all of the sentences and thoughts he leaves abandoned, hanging at the ends though he knows Castiel won’t be able to fill them in.

“You mean my true form.” Castiel leans back in his seat and sets down the pawn. Sam nods, and the angel turns his head to the side, lips folded together once again in that familiar, pinched expression of thought. “It is hard to explain in human words,” he says finally.

“Oh.” The disappointment in Sam’s voice is nearly palpable. He turns his gaze back to the chessboard. Castiel is clever, painfully so, and though Sam has always been good at chess, he just can’t seem to win against the angel.

“I did not know you wished to see me,” Castiel says softly, and Sam glances up, blinking.

“I mean… I guess it’s just weird, you know?” Sam sits back and runs a hand through his hair, and then rubs the back of his neck. “You’ve seen us, but we’ve never really seen you.”

Castiel nods slowly, as if understanding, though Sam can’t be sure if he really does. “You humans put much emphasis on what you can see. I understand.” He looks up at the ceiling like it’s going to give him guidance. “I suppose I could start by saying that your popular depictions of angels are highly inaccurate,” he says finally.

Sam snorts. “Yeah, I figured that much.”

Castiel leans forward to move his pawn a space. “And that I looked different when I first met you.”

Sam pauses, glancing down at the board and trying to figure out if the exposed pawn is a trap or not. “What do you mean?”

“When I first met you and Dean, I was just an angel. But when God brought me back, he made me a seraph. Seraphim are different from ordinary angels. I knew right away when I had become a seraph, because I had more than two wings. I had six.”

Sam blinks, trying to imagine a Castiel with six huge wings. “But when you spread them out, I thought there have only ever been two.”

“You are correct. Those two are my flight wings,” Castiel explains. “The other four are… they’re different.” He angles his head to the side, eyes squinted in thought. “Two around my feet, and two around my head. Their feathers are fire, and through them I can see more than just the human visible spectrum of light.”

“You mean your head is on fire?”

“No, my head is not on fire. My head has three faces, and they are covered in eyes, and with them I can see the faces of demons and your soul.”

Sam swallows. “Right.” His soul. He doesn’t like to think about his soul very much, even though he thinks that ever since the trials, he’s been pure. But nothing can ever wash away the memory of his taint, the memory of demon blood on his tongue, of murder and evil awash his veins. He reaches a shaking hand forward to move his bishop when Castiel reaches out a hand and stops just before they touch.

“May I?” he asks gently, and Sam nods, still staring at his trembling fingers.

Castiel takes Sam’s hand in his own, holding it like it’s the most precious thing in this world. “Your soul is beautiful, Sam,” he whispers, and leans over the table to press a kiss to Sam’s forehead. “Even when we first met, when it was covered in darkness, I could see the light shining through more brightly than any star. Your soul is beautiful, and when I raised you from the Cage I knew right away that you were not whole, because inside your eyes there was no light, and you were missing your most beautiful thing. Your soul is beautiful, and it glows from your heart and your head like a sunflower, petals of light extending when you speak and when you smile.”

If Castiel is trying to kill him, he’s nearly succeeded, because Sam can barely breathe. He thinks there might even be tears staining his eyes, because the Cas in his vision is blurry and bright. And not for the first time, Sam is reminded how lucky he is, how selfish all of this is, that he loves this angel and this angel loves him. “Cas…” he says, and wants to say it, to say the words, to tell Castiel all that he’s always meant to say.

But then Castiel lets go of his hand and settles back in his chair. “You should not move your bishop there, because that will leave your queen open,” he says, and his eyes crinkle with a silent laugh.

No, Sam decides. It’s alright. He doesn’t need to say the words. Selfishly, he’s afraid of what they might change, and he never wants to let go of what they have.

“Thanks,” he says, and puts his hand on his knight instead.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to inbox me with any Sastiel prompts you might have in mind. :^3 You can find me on tumblr at [qastiel](http://qastiel.tumblr.com).


End file.
